


Even the Sun Goes Down

by PixelByPixel



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Midland Circle, Sort Of, Stick is an asshole, Working things out, but he tries, implied future death, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/pseuds/PixelByPixel
Summary: Matt hadn't expected a weird noise under his couch to turn into a meeting with somebody he'd thought was dead (and not the somebody he'd hoped), but that was his life.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Stick
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31
Collections: Daredevil Bingo, Daredevil and Defenders Exchange 2020





	Even the Sun Goes Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iithril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iithril/gifts).



> Here is another Daredevil Exchange gift for [Iithril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iithril/). Hope you like it! 
> 
> The prompt I used was  
> “The deeds of men, as footprints in the desert.  
> Nothing under the circling moons is fated to last.  
> Even the sun goes down.”  
> (The Lions of Al-Rassan, by Guy Gavriel Kay) 
> 
> Thanks as always to [titC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/) for the beta and for convincing me that, yes, the fic is done, _really_ <3
> 
> This also fills my Daredevil Bingo square for Josie's.

There is a noise.

It’s under his couch, a soft tap that Matt can only hear when he’s not listening for it. The tapping only happens once before it stops for a while, which is why he can’t find the source. It’s not like he can crawl around on the floor with a flashlight, and his heightened senses are being unusually obtuse.

He can hear it from his bedroom, though the sound isn’t loud. Not that volume is really an issue for Matt, but he doesn’t think he should be able to hear that tiny tapping sound from his bed.

He can’t sleep. Even though the sound is quiet, it comes at irregular intervals that catch his attention. He listens, as he always does right after he hears it, but of course, there is only silence until he swears, gives up, and turns on his other side.

Just as he finally starts to drift off, it happens again.

It almost sounds like an old floor settling, but Matt knows that isn’t it. He’s not sure how he knows - especially since he has no idea what the noise is - but he does.

Maggie would say he’s being silly, that he should just get a white noise machine to cover the sound. He decides not to do that, because why spend money when business at the law firm isn’t _that_ great, financially speaking? The next day, he does get Foggy to help him download a white noise app. Foggy asks if everything is okay and Matt can hear the concern in his voice, but Matt smiles and says that he’s fine, and maybe Foggy believes him.

Knowing Foggy, and knowing how Foggy knows Matt, he probably doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything, though. He just helps Matt download the app and makes it clear he’s available for anything else Matt might need, and Matt thinks yet again that he doesn’t deserve Foggy.

More accurately, Foggy doesn’t deserve to be saddled with _Matt_.

When he goes home after work, Matt can hear the soft _tap_ as he approaches his door. He lets out a curse that, while quiet, is creative enough to elicit a reproving murmur from Fran as she leaves her apartment.

Matt mutters a quick apology to Fran as he fumbles open his door. Once inside, he gives his couch a hard shove, moving it from its usual spot, and crouches to run his hand along the floor.

Nothing. Of course, there’s nothing. He would even have been pleased to find some sort of vermin, if only to give him an explanation. He gets to his feet and sinks onto the couch, which is still askew, and lets his eyes close. Maybe it wasn’t the noise. Maybe somebody dropped something and it made a similar sound. He’s almost relaxed enough to sleep, almost…

_Tap_.

Matt startles and scrambles to his feet. The sound still came from under the couch, even in its new position, so maybe that’s the source. Matt knocks the couch over so that its back lands on the floor and hears an answering thump from his downstairs neighbor. Too focused on discovering the source of the noise to shout an apology to Mrs. Murphy, Matt runs his hand along the underside of the couch, his fingers seeking any sort of clue. Nothing, nothing… there. It’s a small opening in the fabric covering the couch’s underside, too neat to have been made by wear and tear.

Matt chides himself for his moment of hesitancy and eases his fingers into the opening.

Nothing bites him. Good. He does feel a slip of paper and pulls it out.

A piece of paper?

In his couch?

Matt unfolds the heavy paper, his fingers running along one side, and he is puzzled but somehow unsurprised to find the bumps on its surface.

_Took you long enough. Meet me at that bar you like._

For a moment, Matt thinks, _Elektra?_ , but then he dismisses the idea. The one time he convinced Elektra to give Josie’s a try, she stopped outside the building, said, _Oh, Matthew,_ in that _What were you thinking?_ voice, and took him to a wine bar instead. So, even though there’s little he wouldn’t give to be near her again, he acknowledges that it isn’t Elektra.

_Elektra,_ he reminds himself again, _is dead._

It still hurts.

Matt runs his fingers over the paper once more. No date, no sender’s name. How will whoever it is know when to meet him?

Well, he doesn’t mind an excuse to go to Josie’s; if this person doesn’t show up, he’ll just have a drink. He decides not to invite Foggy or Karen, though; he wouldn’t want to explain the note or the tapping.

Speaking of the tapping, Matt still isn’t sure where it came from. He reaches into the couch once more but doesn’t find anything.

At least it wasn’t spiders. Not that Matt dislikes spiders - they eat other, more annoying creatures - but the mere thought of a couch full of spiders gives him a full-body shudder.

He takes a moment to clean up a little, then makes his way to Josie’s.

It feels strange to be there alone, and maybe Josie thinks it’s weird, too.

“Where are your buddies?” she asks as he approaches the bar. “Thought you and Foggy Nelson were joined at the hip or something.”

“Somewhere else,” Matt replies, though not without a charming smile. “Anybody here looking for me?”

Josie is perhaps not entirely charmed, but she lowers her voice as she asks, “You owe ’em money? Nobody been asking, but I’ve got a baseball bat back here if they show up.”

Matt, feeling both amused and oddly touched, replies, “It’s not that, but thanks. I’m supposed to meet somebody here.”

“Well, what do they look l… ah, never mind.”

“Yeah,” Matt says, with another of those smiles that Foggy always says broke hearts left and right while they were in law school. “You see my problem. So to speak. I guess I’ll have a seat and let them come to me.”

“And I guess you want a drink while you do that,” Josie says, imitating Matt’s tone as she gets him his usual. Well, she’s joking around with him, so maybe the smile worked.

“You know me too well.”

Matt takes himself and his drink and sits at a corner table, his back to the wall. Not that sneaking up on him is easy, but he still wants that security.

So when that disturbingly familiar presence appears and sits down next to him, Matt isn’t exactly surprised to hear him say, “You picked the best seat in the house.”

No, what surprises Matt, what just about knocks him on his ass, figuratively speaking, is not what is being said. It’s who is saying it.

Stick.

“You’re dead,” Matt says, his voice gone hoarse. He takes a drink - to wet his throat, of course.

He can hear Stick’s shrug as he says, “I got better. It happens.”

Well, true. That’s something Matt knows only too well. He thinks of asking, _How?_ Really, though, he doesn’t want the details. Matt knows there is only one person who came back from the dead without it being some sort of perversion. Much as he loves - _loved_ \- Elektra, much as he would give anything to feel her skin under his fingers, her hair brushing against his cheek, he knows that what brought her back was wrong.

Maybe Stick knows that Matt is pondering resurrection, for he says, “It took longer than three days, that’s all I’m saying.”

“What do you want?” Matt asks, his tone cold. Stick comparing himself to Jesus… it’s just too much.

“Oh, please, Matty. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. It was a joke.” Matt waits. Stick draws out the silence then says, “Maybe I just wanted to talk to you.”

Matt scoffs. “Doubtful. What is it, really?”

After another long pause, Stick says, his voice rough, “I need your help.”

“Of course you do. Well, the answer is no.”

“You haven’t even heard the question yet.”

Matt picks up his drink and then puts it down again without drinking it, lest he fling it at Stick’s head in his anger. “Answer’s still no.” He takes in a breath and lets it out in a short, frustrated sound. “You didn’t even bother to knock on my door and ask me. You just did whatever it was to make that tapping sound, and then left me a note in my fucking _couch_.”

Matt is starting to get loud. He can hear the chairs scrape as people turn, can feel their stares. He modulates his volume as he repeats, voice quiet and tight, “No.”

“That tapping thing messed with you? Made you think maybe you were losing your marbles?” Matt doesn’t answer, but of course, Stick knows. Stick always knows. When Matt was a kid, Stick knew exactly what to say or do to get under his skin, to push him harder.

And yet Matt had loved him.

“The tapping was a test,” he says, because of course it was a test.

“Of course it was a test,” Stick agrees, and Matt scoffs. “But, Matty, you figured it out.” Matt waits and, unsurprisingly, Stick adds, “Eventually.”

Matt closes his eyes - not that it makes a difference to his senses, but it feels like it should, even now. He takes in his environment. There’s a particular smell to Josie’s: not bad, but familiar, alcohol and a bit of smoke that settled into the upholstery years ago, and that undefinable something that he’s never been able to explain to Foggy and Karen. People chatter. There’s a good-natured argument over a game of pool, and Matt remembers playing pool with Karen so long ago. Josie’s has almost always been a place of fun, of friendship, of celebration. His jaw tightens at the thought of Stick choosing this place for their meeting, twisting it from a place of joy to one that makes a cold feeling settle in the pit of his stomach.

Stick asked for help and Matt _said_ no, but he knows that he’ll end up doing what Stick wants. Things always tend to go Stick’s way, after all. He does feel like he should at least put up a fight, and there’s a small urge to make the fight physical.

Maybe they should move the meeting to Fogwell’s, though that place has its own memories. The first time he took Elektra there catches at his mind: their… fight. But everything was a fight with Elektra.

“I can still take you, Matty,” Stick says, his voice low and raspy. He clears his throat and it turns into a cough.

Matt wonders if maybe the resurrection didn’t take all the way. He turns his senses toward Stick - Stick would be the first to say he should have done that first thing - and notices the too-slow heartbeat and respiration rate.

But all he says is, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, old man.”

“You should be able to,” Stick says after he catches his breath. “Students should surpass their teachers. Ellie…”

“Elektra killed you.”

“Well, obviously it didn’t take.”

There’s a wheeze in his lungs; the coughing fit irritated something. Matt tries to ignore it.

“She still beat you.”

“She did,” Stick agrees, and Matt catches the note of pride in his voice before it goes flat. “But I heard what happened. She never came out of Midland Circle.”

“No.” Matt drains the last of his drink and shifts to get up. He doesn’t want to talk about that day, least of all with Stick. “If we’re done here?”

Stick’s hand catches at his arm and it’s all Matt can do not to twist out of his grip and retaliate with a joint lock. He can just see the headlines, though: _Local Lawyer Accosts Old Blind Guy_. Never mind that he’s as blind as Stick; they’d only mention that if it suited them, and even his association with Karen isn’t enough for him to get a pass if he beats up Stick in public.

Plus, _could_ he beat up Stick? He’d like to think he could, but there’s always that doubt. Where Stick is concerned, a part of Matt is always nine years old.

Matt settles back in his seat. “What.” It’s not a question but more a demand: say what you will and be done with it.

“Your training,” Stick says, and Matt scoffs.

“That was finished years ago. You should remember that; it was your choice to end it.” Not that Matt hadn’t found other ways to train during those years. He’d tried pretending to be, if not fully sighted, then not entirely blind. When he started to feel guilty about the deception, he reminded himself that it was nothing more than the truth. He could… perceive.

He’d had to leave Hell’s Kitchen to find people to train him, people who didn’t know him as _Jack Murdock’s boy, you know, the one who got blinded?_ But his city was big enough that he was able to find help, and it felt good to use his body in that way.

“I know,” Stick is saying, and Matt pulls his attention back to the present. “And that was the right thing to do.”

Matt exhales a short, derisive sound. “You’re not really selling me on whatever it is you want me to do.”

“There are techniques,” Stick says, a note of urgency in his voice. “Things that shouldn’t be lost if… when.”

So Stick knows that he is on borrowed time. Matt isn’t surprised; Stick has perceptions similar to his own.

“Techniques,” Matt repeats. “But… me?”

Stick exhales a sigh, low and pained. “I had someone else in mind, but…”

Elektra. Of course. “Please, old man,” Matt said, trying to add a note of bitter humor but probably only succeeding at the bitterness. “You thought you were going to live forever.”

“Forever? No. Who wants that? But I thought I would have more time. I hoped…” He clears his throat.

Matt doesn’t ask, but he’s pretty sure Stick pinned his hopes on Elektra. And, really, Matt knows there was a time when Elektra would have done anything for Stick. Hell, Matt would have done anything for Stick, too, once upon a time.

They sit through a silence that feels endless, then Stick adds, “The techniques could help you.”

“Help me?” Matt echoes.

“Protect your city.”

_Damn,_ Matt thinks. _Still an asshole._

He’s not going to do it. He’s not. Stick is still that same manipulative bastard he gave an ice cream wrapper bracelet to all those years ago, the same asshole who sent Elektra to turn him. Twice.

No. Having anything to do with Stick is a mistake. So why does he hear himself saying, “I’m listening.”

Stick still knows how to play him, he guesses. He takes a drink, holding it in his mouth a moment before he swallows it, as if doing that can take away the bitterness.

“Let’s get out of here,” Stick says. “Somewhere quieter. Somewhere we can move around a little.”

Matt exhales a short sound, almost a laugh. “Why don’t you just say where you want us to go?”

“I don’t have to, do I?”

No, he doesn’t. Matt gets to his feet, his senses telling him that Stick does the same, and leads the way to Fogwell’s Gym.

It’s still in rough shape, though Matt has jimmied the lock at Fogwell’s often enough that it is the work of seconds to get in.

Stick clicks his tongue as they enter and Matt lets the echoes wash over him to reveal the familiar outlines of the place.

He can still remember what it looked like, though the memories are hazy and dim, like a television screen clouded by static. Easier just to use his other senses. Well, easier and less painful, because remembering being able to see Fogwell’s means remembering his father, and he doesn’t want to do that just now. Not with Stick in the room with him.

He was desperate for attention as a kid. He realizes that now. And even the scraps of praise that Stick tossed his way were enough that Matt came on too strong, wanting more. That was why Stick left. It was his fault.

And that was good. Matt came to that realization eventually. He knows that if Stick had stayed, had continued training him, he would have become…

Well, like Elektra, which wouldn’t have been all bad. He loves - loved - no, damn it, _loves_ Elektra for who she was, all of her. For her violence and her anger as well as her strength and her intelligence. Just like she loved him for all of himself, even the vigilante.

He can’t imagine being like Elektra, though, much as he loves her, and he doesn’t want to think about her, either. Not in this place, not where they - no.

“What is it?”

Stick makes a vague noise of inquiry.

“The technique. Let’s get it over with.”

“Oh, you think this will be quick? You never were a fast learner, Matty.”

Matt scoffs and shakes his head, though he loosens his tie in preparation for whatever is to come. Thinking twice, he pulls the tie over his head and drops it on a chair. No need to give Stick something to hang on to.

Like Elektra’s hair. He loved combing his fingers through it, feeling it brush across his face, but why didn’t she cut it? Beautiful as it was, it was also an easy handle. Matt is surprised Stick let her keep it. But Elektra with short hair? No, it feels wrong.

He realizes that Stick still hasn’t done anything and focuses. He’s still there, just inside the door. He’s breathing a little harder; maybe the walk was difficult for him, though it wasn’t far.

It occurs to Matt that he can probably best Stick now, beat him, even kill him.

Kill him. No. Of course, he can’t kill Stick. Besides, Elektra already killed him, and yet he’s standing there, his breathing like thunder in Matt’s ears.

What did Stick say? That Matt is a slow learner?

“Well,” Matt finally replies, “I’m not going to learn anything if you just stand there.”

Stick scoffs. “If you think you can’t learn anything by standing there, then I should turn around right now.”

Matt grimaces because Stick is right; of course he can learn things by standing there. That’s what he has been doing: assessing Stick, listening to him, drawing conclusions. “Fine,” he concedes, but gracelessly. “But let’s get started. I have work to do for a case tomorrow.”

“Legal stuff,” Stick says, his voice derisive, and Matt doesn’t bother to reply. He knows Stick’s opinion on his job, and he doesn’t care. He knows what he does as a lawyer helps people, that it matters. What he does in the dark helps people, too, sure, which is why he agreed to come with Stick.

“Can we begin?” Matt keeps his tone flat. If he _sounds_ impatient, Stick will draw things out in the name of teaching Matt a lesson, but actually because he’s an asshole.

Stick doesn’t say anything; he just props up his cane next to the door and walks farther into Fogwell’s. He moves close to where, or so Matt has been told, a certain photo still hangs on the wall.

Had Matt seen it, back when he still could? His eyes probably glanced over it countless times. Had he recognized the man as his father, wondered who the nun was?

Matt can’t remember. Those times are long gone, their memories distant. Still, he tenses a little as Stick comes to a halt, wanting to say… what? _Don’t hurt the picture_?

That would be ridiculous. Sentimental.

Stick would make fun of him.

So he doesn’t say anything. He just sets aside his cane as well, keeping the door between it and Stick’s, and approaches a heavy bag. It’s not too close to where Stick is and is situated so Matt won’t have to turn his back on Stick. He reaches to touch the bag, more out of habit than anything else, then punches it, but lightly.

“That all you got?”

Of course, that’s Stick’s response. Matt doesn’t say anything, but he does punch harder, exhaling as he makes contact with the bag and rocks it away from him. He sidesteps the bag’s swing and punches again.

It feels good, the scrape of his knuckles against the bag, the weight of it as he hits it. It’s different, hitting a person. There’s more give - well, or less, if Matt chooses his target poorly. Since Stick is taking his sweet time about this mysterious technique, Matt ignores him and focuses on the workout. His jacket annoys him and he pulls it off, tossing it to land on the chair with his tie.

He can feel Stick’s presence and pushes himself harder. Muscles pull as he strikes the bag with a roundhouse kick, and Matt regrets not having stretched.

He’s getting old, or at least he’s feeling old.

But it was a solid kick. There is that.

Stick still isn’t talking, isn’t even doing much of anything but breathing, so Matt keeps at it until he’s breathing hard.

It takes less time than it should, and he’s surprised that the scoffing, _You’ve gone soft._ is only in his head. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Did you set all this up just to stand here and do nothing?”

“Maybe.”

It’s a test. With Stick, it’s always a test; Matt’s old enough and aware enough not to put up with it. He shakes his head and turns to get his jacket. “This is bullshit.”

And he’s on the ground as soon as his back is turned, Stick’s knee pressing into his back. “Not bad for a dead guy, huh?” But there’s a new sharpness to his wheeze. The move cost him, and Matt can’t find it in him to be sorry.

He’ll ask forgiveness for that moment the next time he goes to confession, though maybe not for the way he twists out of Stick’s grip and knocks him to the ground. The new priest wouldn’t understand.

He gets to his feet, feeling a twinge in his back, and stands over Stick.

Stick clears his throat and sits up. “Feels good, huh?”

Matt scoffs, not wanting to admit that it kind of does. “Some technique.”

Stick shakes his head. “That’s not the technique.” The _idiot_ at the end of his sentence is implied by his tone. “But it felt good, standing over me like that. I can tell.”

Matt is not used to being the one whose reactions are given away by his heartbeat. He doesn’t say anything.

Stick continues, “You want to kill me, huh? Finish the job Ellie started?”

“What? No!” Matt is sure his heart did another thing, and Stick scoffs as he gets to his feet. It is not a quick process, and Stick is breathing heavily by the end of it.

“Sure you do.”

“No. I… I don’t kill people.”

Stick makes an odd sound, not quite a cough, and it takes Matt a moment to realize that Stick is laughing. “Yeah, you do.”

“No. I don’t.”

Stick gestures vaguely in the direction of the heavy bag. “That kick you just did. You ever kick somebody’s head like that?”

Matt doesn’t reply, but yes. He has.

Stick seems to take his silence for the answer it is. “You think you can kick somebody like that and they’ll survive? Every time? Hell, I know you’re a lawyer -” His tone makes it an insult. “- but you remember how the human body works, right?” He takes on a lecturing manner, but voice makes it clear that he’s repeating things he thinks Matt should know. “Not necessarily the blow to the head, but sometimes how they hit the ground after. You never bounced somebody off a curb?” Stick seems to have recovered somewhat, as his heartbeat is steadier; Matt finds that he doesn’t care, as he’s reeling as if Stick has hit him with blows, rather than words. “You’re lying to yourself if you think your hands are clean, Matty.”

“I - no.” Matt reaches for the bag. He doesn’t hug it, though some tiny part of him wants to; he needs it to ground himself to reality. “I never -” But he remembers some of the people he fought. He never heard the heartbeat fade, no, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t die. “I didn’t - I didn’t mean -”

Sin. _Thou shalt not…_

He hears Stick sigh as if from a distance, heads his muttered, “Fuck,” but doesn’t really register it. “Matty, hey.” His tone is gentler but a little exasperated, as if he doesn’t want to deal with Matt’s crisis.

But Matt doesn’t want gentleness right now; not from Stick, not from anybody.

He grabs his jacket and tie and turns to leave, though Stick’s voice stops him.

“You’re leaving?” His voice is hard now; that’s what keeps Matt there. “Kid, what you’ve done is done. Moping about it isn’t going to fix anything. And you know you’re going to keep doing what you do.”

“No,” Matt protests, but he already knows that isn’t true. He’ll hear people in need and he won’t be able to stop himself from helping them, even if it damns him. “I’ll be careful.”

“Careful,” Stick echoes, his voice full of derision. “That’s great if you’re the one you want to end up dead.”

Matt doesn’t say anything. Some days, ending up dead seems like the best option.

“Get back here,” Stick says, though his wheeze on the last word makes it pretty clear he wouldn’t be able to compel Matt.

It is the wheeze, though, that makes Matt turn back. However Stick has been brought back to life, it doesn’t seem like it will last. Possibly this is Matt’s last chance to talk to him; he regretted not being able to say some things the last time Stick died.

“Good,” Stick says as Matt comes back and puts his jacket on the chair once more. “Now, the technique…”

“What is it, a better way to kill?” Matt’s words are so bitter that he can taste them at the back of his throat.

“No.” Stick comes over and all but collapses into a chair. “Sit.”

Matt wants to argue, but the wheeze has picked up again. He sits. He’s not worried, he tells himself, but it does seem like whoever brought Stick back to life didn’t do a great job.

What would have happened if Matt hadn’t figured out the source of that noise? Would it have died along with Stick? Or would he have kept hearing it until he threw himself out a window to get away from it? Some things, he decides, are best not thought about too hard. And even as he pushes that thought away, all the battles he fought loom before his eyes. How many people died? How many did he kill?

Stick has stopped talking again, and his heartbeat slows and then stops altogether. Matt freezes and listens, but he can’t hear it: not the heartbeat, not Stick’s breathing, nothing. He scrambles to his feet, but the rasp of Stick’s dry laughter stops him from moving closer.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“Your heart. It stopped.”

Matt can hear Stick’s shrug in his reply. “Seemed like it, but no. Want to learn how?”

Matt thinks about who exactly this skill would be useful against. The criminals around the Kitchen weren’t exactly listening for heartbeats, after all. “The Hand. Are they back?”

Stick exhales a heavy breath.

“But you said this technique would help protect my city. Stick, are they _here_?”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist. They’re not here.”

But Matt could hear the unspoken _yet_. “They’re coming, though. Aren’t they?”

“They are… regrouping,” Stick said, his words coming slowly. “Licking their wounds after what happened last time they were here. Rumor is they think they can still get what they wanted before.”

Matt rocks back in his chair. “Under Midland Circle.”

“Under Midland Circle.”

“No. I can’t go back there.” Not where Elektra died. He doesn’t say it, but he figures Stick knows that’s what he’s thinking.

“Soft.” It’s a whisper, an exhalation, but Matt hears it; he assumes Stick intended that.

“Fuck you,” Matt replies, his temper flaring. “You weren’t there.”

“Yeah, I was dead.”

Well, that’s probably the only excuse Stick would ever accept. “And being able to hide my heartbeat will help me -” Not kill them. _Not_ kill them. “- defeat them?”

“Yeah.”

But there’s something Stick isn’t saying; Matt can tell from the quality of his silence. When he was a kid, this sort of silence meant that Matt missed something. He can’t think of what it could be, so he just says, “What?”

“Sometimes, learning to silence your own heartbeat is a stepping stone to more.”

It’s like pulling teeth, getting the information out of Stick. Maybe it’s because of his need to stop for breath. “Like what?”

“Silencing the heartbeats of others.”

Matt is about to ask if it isn’t better that he hear others’ heartbeats, but then he realizes: silencing as in stopping them. “No.” This would be killing people with intent, mortal sin. “ _No_.”

“Not many people can do it. You probably wouldn’t be able to.”

Matt knows that Stick is intending to wound his pride, make him say, _Yes, I could!_

That might have worked when Matt was nine years old.

Learning how to disguise his heartbeat, that could be useful, but Matt will never silence another’s heart. He can take what he wants from Stick and ignore the rest.

“Are there Hand members in the city?”

Stick sighs, sounding a little exasperated. “Yeah, a couple, but nobody important. The ones doing the planning are figuring out their shit somewhere else.”

“So when will they be here?”

Stick makes a noise that sounds like a shrug. “Soon.”

“Soon,” Matt echoes, his voice heavy with derision. “How do I know you’re not bullshitting me, manipulating me like you did when I was a kid.”

And then more manipulation when he sent Elektra, but Matt isn’t going to talk about that.

Stick sighs. “Go to Midland Circle.” He keeps talking over Matt’s objection, saying, “The people who are here have done some excavating.”

Everything about Matt is screaming _no_. He doesn’t want to go back there. He’s avoided that part of town since… well.

A small part of him thinks that, since he doesn’t want to go back there, maybe he should. This, he figures, is an especially Catholic part of him.

“What if I do and I want to learn - more.” Not how to silence another’s heartbeat, never that, but maybe how to hide his own. If the enemy has skills he lacks, that’s his failing.

Matt scoffs. That’s Stick’s voice in his head.

“I’ll get you a message,” Stick replies.

Matt nods and gets to his feet. Part of him wants to stay here, punch the bag, but he knows that could lead to hitting Stick.

That would probably be bad, especially since Stick has knowledge he may want, but damn if it wouldn’t feel good.

Matt doesn’t want to leave Stick alone in Fogwell’s, though. He gestures toward the door and Stick, with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough, gets to his feet.

“Why all the mystery?” Matt asks as he jimmies the lock into place behind them. “About the technique,” he adds when Stick doesn’t respond. “Why not just say that the Hand is coming back?”

“Would you have come with me?”

Matt wants to say, _Yes, of course, to protect my city,_ and that probably is the truth. The other part of him is wary of tangling with the Hand on his own. So he doesn’t answer but just turns and leaves.

He’s almost out of earshot when he heard Stick rasp, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

* * *

It takes a few days before Matt can make himself go to Midland Circle. He spends those days filled with anxiety that he _should_ go as well as guilt for his inaction.

So, yeah, just your standard weekend for Matt Murdock.

On Sunday, he decides that this is the day, that he won’t put it off any longer. He lights an extra candle after Mass, checks the internet for what time the sun will set and heads out a few hours after that.

He’s wearing the black suit, of course, though he’s foregone the ropes in favor of better maneuverability under the building.

He makes his way to that part of town via the rooftops as much as possible. People don’t look up that often, he’s found, and he enjoys the physical activity.

As he gets closer, he finds himself slowing. The thought of being under that building again gnaws at his gut.

He continues anyway. It’s not like not wanting to do something has ever been a valid reason to avoid it.

Finally, he finds himself at the fence that somebody - Danny Rand, maybe - has put up around the wreckage of the building. Getting over it is nothing, and then he is inside.

The area feels like - well, like a building has collapsed. There hasn’t been much in the way of cleanup, whether because of bureaucracy or Danny’s influence, Matt doesn’t know.

He starts to make his way into what is left of the building, his senses telling him the safest route. Once inside, he stops - to get his bearings, he tells himself. Everywhere is rubble, broken concrete, splintered wood, shattered drywall.

Slowly, carefully, Matt makes his way to the opening he knows is still there, though now partially filled with debris. He can make his way down; he can sense a path, but as he mentally pieces together the way, he finds his breath catching in his throat, his heart pounding so hard he feels like it should set off more destruction.

He pulls off his mask, gasping for breath.

_Soft,_ says Stick’s voice in his head. _Weak._

Matt can do this. He pulls on the mask once more and starts to make his way down, his heart guttering the whole time.

He tries not to think too hard about the return trip.

After what seems like hours, he reaches the bottom. There’s an open area, so somebody must have cleared it out.

Maybe Stick was right; maybe members of the Hand are back, clearing the way for the higher-ups. Matt doesn’t sense any heartbeats, but they could be hidden.

They have to have some other way to get into this place, though; he can’t see people making that descent on the regular. After some hunting, he finds a tunnel and makes a mental note of it, but he needs to explore before he leaves.

He doesn’t want to have to return.

There is a difference in the air at the far end of the cleared area. He can’t figure out how he would describe it to someone who doesn’t have his senses, but it feels different, odd, uncanny. He takes a deep breath, trying to slow down his still-pounding heart, and the air catches in his throat, making him cough.

Naturally, he goes in that direction, though he comes to a halt partway there.

Here.

This is the spot where he, where they -

Where Elektra died.

He can’t sense her presence at all, which… okay, it hurts. She’s not there, of course, not after all this time. She… died.

She died.

Fear grips Matt at the thought of the Hand taking her body, bringing her to life again. No. That can’t have happened. Surely he would have known. _But,_ whispers a voice at the back of his mind, _you didn’t know before._

He leans down and brushes his fingers against the ground and then brings them to his lips. He’s never said a proper farewell to Elektra, mainly because he can’t bring himself to admit that she’s really gone.

But he also hopes that she’s gone, because if she had survived and was herself, she would have come and found him.

Wouldn’t she?

But if by some chance the Hand took her again, he’ll… stop them. He’ll have to deal with the Hand, and Stick’s technique would make that easier. Not, he vows, the one to kill; he only wants to keep himself hidden.

Before he leaves, he has to investigate what the Hand has been doing. He stands upright and slips a hand under his mask to wipe at his eyes, then moves toward the area where the air feels strange.

It is, of course, where the Hand had been harvesting dragon bones, their mysterious substance. Surely the bones were all crushed during the building’s collapse, but as Matt moves closer, he definitely feels something.

He makes a mental note to talk to Danny about it and then enters the area where the Hand may be working. He senses the muted thrum of electricity waiting to be turned on.

Yeah, somebody is definitely up to something.

Matt turns to leave, making his way back to the tunnel. It is almost certainly not up to code, but Matt decides it is a better option than climbing back up.

Partway through the tunnel, Matt is pretty sure he made the wrong choice. He can feel the tunnel walls closing in on him, the weight of the world crushing him.

“You’re blind,” he pants. “You can’t even see the tunnel.”

But he knows it’s there.

Honestly, he’s amazed he made it this far.

When he feels what he is absolutely certain is a tremor, he fumbles for his phone. “Call Foggy,” he manages, but his phone beeps an alert at him, then a computerized voice informs him that he can’t get a signal.

It’s all Matt can do not to throw the thing against the wall of the tunnel. He can’t go back, so he has to push on. He can smell the city; surely it’s not that much farther, but he can’t make himself move quickly. What if he hits the wrong spot and triggers… something? He isn’t sure what, but he knows he won’t like it.

Finally, finally, he emerges into the cool night air. He can hear a truck rumble over a nearby road; maybe that’s what caused the tremor he felt earlier.

“Stupid,” he mutters. He needs to get his bearings, to take note of the place for if - when - he returns.

“Okay, Google,” he mutters. When his phone doesn’t recognize his voice, he clears his throat and tries again. “Okay, Google.” It chimes and he says, “Remember where I parked.” It dings an affirmative and Matt tries not to find it too creepy. He can check the map later, though.

For now, he needs to get home. He inhales a deep breath and, yes, under the general smell of the alley the tunnel opened into is the more welcoming aroma of a bagel shop getting a head start on the day’s baking. It must have taken him longer than he thought to go through Midland Circle. And there is a 24-hour laundromat. He heads in that direction and soon finds a familiar fire escape, a path to the rooftops of New York.

Matt makes his way home and showers away the worst of the grime before falling into bed and getting what rest he can.

Sleep is slow in coming and full of dreams of falling, pain, and a familiar weight in his arms.

When he wakes, he wishes he hadn’t.

* * *

So now Matt has to wait for Stick to send a message, and Stick takes what feels like a ridiculously long time for somebody wanting to stop an organization like the Hand, even if its membership has been reduced. Days pass.

He hasn’t been home from work for very long and has been trying to convince himself that food is worth the effort when the knock sounds. The heartbeat on the other side of the door is steady but a little fast. A kid, Matt decides as he hauls himself to his feet.

He opens the door and the kid doesn’t say anything, so Matt asks, “Hello?”

“Hi, Mr. Matt.”

Oh, it’s one of the neighbor kids from downstairs, Teri’s youngest, he thinks, as he tries to remember her name.

“Oh, hi, Paolo,” he says, naming the kid’s oldest brother; he can’t help but smile at her aggrieved squawk.

“Mr. Matt, it’s Tessie. I know your eyes don’t work so good, but you gotta know I’m not Paolo.”

“Tessie, that’s right!”

“Paolo is a _dumb boy_. Girls are _way_ better.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Matt says, managing not to laugh. “You’re absolutely right. Girls are the best.”

“That’s okay,” Tessie says, sounding like Matt’s words soothed her aggravation. “You’ll do better next time.”

Matt can’t help but smile a little at that; he remembers hearing Teri say that to one of the kids earlier this week. “So how can I help you, Tessie. Your mom need something?”

“No, a man said to bring this to you.”

He feels paper bump against his hand and takes it. “Thank you.”

“I told him your eyes don’t work so good, but he said it was okay.”

“What did the man look like?” Matt asks, suspicious.

“Old,” Tessie replies, a shrug in her voice. Of course, young as she is, a thirty-year-old could be ancient for her. “White hair. And sunglasses.”

Matt’s hand tightens on the paper. “Did he say anything to you?” The thought of Stick being anywhere near this kid is too much. Why couldn’t he have just come up the stairs and spoken to Matt himself?

“No,” Tessie replies. “Just asked if I knew you and could I take you the paper.”

Matt bends down a little. Tessie’s small; he wants to get closer to her level. “You’re sure? That man…” He doesn’t want to scare her. “He can be a little mean sometimes. If he was mean to you, I’ll tell him to knock it off.”

There’s a shift in the air, and Matt feels a whisk of something against his chest. It’s her hair. She must have long hair. Matt hadn’t realized that.

“He wasn’t, like, super nice or anything, but he wasn’t mean, either. He sounded like my granddad when he’s tired. I bet that was it.”

“Good.” Matt relaxes a little. Not that Stick is likely to recruit random neighborhood kids, of course, but he wanted to be sure. “Thanks for bringing me the paper.”

“I can read it for you if you want,” Tessie offers. “I just got moved into the Busy Bees reading group at school.”

“That’s great,” Matt says, taking it for the good news her proud tone suggests. “Good for you. Let me just…” His fingers seek out the folds in the paper and he opens it. “Thank you, but it’s okay. It’s written in a special kind of writing I can read.”

Tessie suddenly presses against him, leaning lightly against his leg. “I don’t see anything. Just some bumps.”

“That’s the writing,” Matt explains. “See, I read it with my fingers the way you read with your eyes.”

“Cool,” Tessie approves. He hears her inhalation and braces himself for questions, but then a voice from below summons her back home.

“Did the man say he was going to wait for me to answer?”

“No, he walked off.”

“Okay, well thanks, Tessie.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Matt.”

Matt listens for the sound of her footsteps going down the steps and then returns to his apartment, his fingertips brushing the Braille letters. _Tomorrow 6 pm. Gym._

So they’ll be going back to Fogwell’s. Matt isn’t sure why they can’t just do it now. Stick can’t have gotten too far. Matt drops the note on the small table by his door, grabs his cane, and heads back out, not taking the time to change clothes.

The conversation with Tessie didn’t last very long; maybe Matt can catch up with Stick and see where he is, why he didn’t just come talk to Matt, and why they can’t start tonight.

Matt hurries down the stairs and then takes a moment to listen once he leaves his building. There it is, the wheeze and rattle of Stick’s breathing. Matt turns to follow, picking up the pace a little. He doesn’t bother to use his cane; he’s in too much of a hurry. Stick isn’t moving quickly, though, and his pace soon slows to a halt. Matt finally finds him outside a diner, the shape of his breath suggesting that he’s leaning against the building a little.

“You followed me.” Matt hears irritation in Stick’s voice but also, buried deep, grudging pride. “You can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“No,” Matt replies, his annoyance no doubt obvious. “Why didn’t you just come up to my apartment? I don’t want you talking to the neighbor kids.”

“That little girl? I wouldn’t recruit her.”

“Yeah, she’s got too much family.” Matt scoffed. “Just answer the question.”

Stick was quiet for a moment. “No elevator,” he said finally, and Matt couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You didn’t come to my place because of some _stairs_?” This from the great Stick, he who wrote the book about _no pain, no gain_?

“Yeah.” Stick falls silent again and Matt takes a moment to hear the struggle of his lungs, the strain of his heart. Maybe the stairs would have been too much for him. “Let’s go,” Stick adds, turning toward the diner. “You can use some of your fancy lawyer money to buy me dinner.”

Matt, startled a little by Stick’s honesty, follows him. “Yeah, okay.”

Matt opens the door and holds it for Stick, then goes after him to the last booth. Stick takes the spot that puts his back to the wall, so Matt slides into the other seat.

The server comes over after a moment and then asks, “What, is there a convention?” Matt slowly turns in her direction and, from her short intake of breath, Stick apparently does, too. Apparently they unintentionally managed the creepy unison thing. “Uh, never mind. I’m Angie. Can I get you a drink? We, uh, don’t have a Braille menu, sorry, but I guess I could…”

“Coffee,” Matt says, not letting her finish whatever she’s half-heartedly offering. It’s not like he isn’t used to restaurants not having Braille menus, but it gets old. “And a cheeseburger, medium rare, extra pickles. And fries.” He knows there are burgers - he can smell someone eating one two booths down - and he just doesn’t feel like doing the song and dance.

“Same,” Stick says.

Angie says, “You got it,” and hurries off to place the order.

Stick doesn’t say anything, and for once Matt doesn’t feel like filling the silence. Angie brings over their coffee after a few minutes, setting the cups down before them and adding, “There’s cream and sugar. Uh, the end of the table near the window. And we’ve got Equal and all, too, but the sugar’s in the glass container in the middle.”

“Thank you.” Matt smiles. She’s trying, which is more than some folks do.

“I’ll bring your food over as soon as it’s ready.”

“Thanks,” Matt repeats, and Angie hurries off.

“You need cream or sugar?” Stick asks, and Matt _almost_ dumps in a bunch of them both, just to spite Stick and his judgmental tone.

“Seriously? You’re picking on _condiments_?”

Matt can hear a shrug in Stick’s reply. “Nah. Just on the people who find that stuff necessary.”

Matt shakes his head, dismissing Stick’s words, and takes a drink of his coffee. Black, of course. “So why did you want to wait until tomorrow?”

“No particular reason.”

Matt can feel his teeth grind and loosens his jaw. If he didn’t know that being able to conceal his heartbeat was a useful skill, he’d just leave.

“Is it difficult? Learning to conceal your heartbeat?” All those ninjas were able to do it, so Matt assumes he can handle it, too.

“Takes some focus. Have you been meditating?”

“Yeah.” But probably not as much as Stick would like, sitting for hours at a time. Work takes time. The night job takes time. And he does sleep occasionally, despite the occasional remark from, okay, everybody who knows him.

Stick _can’t_ read his mind, Matt knows, but he still scoffs. “Not enough. You’re too busy.”

Matt makes a vague noise of acknowledgment.

Angie comes back with their food, then. “Here you go, gentlemen. Hope you like it.”

Stick makes a noise at _gentlemen_ , and while Matt agrees that it really doesn’t apply, he just smiles and says, before Stick can comment, “Thanks. It smells great. Is there ketchup?” There is; he can smell it. But better to ask, to play his part.

“There’s a bottle.” She moves forward suddenly, and then there’s a scrape of glass on the tabletop. “Here. Right in front of you Do…” He can feel her awkwardness, her uncertainty, but _no_. He doesn’t need help.

“Great, thanks.” He reaches for the ketchup, remembering to fumble a little at the last minute, then opens the bottle. Angie makes a pleased noise and heads off, and Matt puts ketchup on his plate. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“What?” Stick asks, though he knows damn well _what_.

“Pretending.”

“Well, I’m blind.”

Matt deliberately picks up his burger, takes a bite, chews. He’s hungry. He skipped lunch again this afternoon. So he takes a minute to enjoy the burger. He hasn’t come to this place very often; he’ll have to change that.

Stick opts for the fries, from the crunching sound across the table. “You don’t have to pretend. You could go somewhere else. You can fake it well enough, as long as you avoid doctors.” Matt scoffs, and Stick agrees, “Yeah, no. Plus, you’d never leave this place. Everybody knows you here, and nobody _knows_ you. Not really.”

“Foggy does,” Matt objects. “And Karen, and -” At the last minute, he decides not to mention Maggie. Better for Stick not to know how much she matters, if he hasn’t already figured it out.

“Do they really?”

“Elektra did.”

That gets a quiet sigh from Stick. “Yeah.”

As for the others, Matt isn’t sure. They know him, yeah, but do they _really_ know him? Foggy probably comes the closest, but there are still things Matt wouldn’t tell Foggy, things that he’s done that he knows would make Foggy worry.

Matt shakes his head and turns his attention to his food, and for a little while their table is quiet. The burger is cooked well and the fries are crispy, with an inside that all but melts on Matt’s tongue. This is food that deserves his full attention.

The fact that he’s also ignoring Stick is an added bonus.

Stick finishes before he does, and Matt can hear his impatience and eats more slowly. “Matty.”

“Food is fuel for the body,” Matt replies, all innocent piety.

“Hah.” So Stick remembers saying that to his much-younger self.

Eventually, Matt finishes, and Angie hurries over to take their plates. “Can I interest either of you in some dessert? We’ve got pie - apple, blueberry, and cherry - and the best chocolate cake you’ve ever had.”

“Ice cream?” Matt asks, just one more needle at Stick.

“Chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. And butter pecan, I think, but I’d have to check.”

“Vanilla. Can I get a cone, take it to go?”

“Of course. Let me get your check, too. Separate checks?”

“He’s paying,” Stick replies. “He’s a fancy lawyer. I’ll have ice cream, too. Since you’re buying,” he adds, sounding like he’s turned his head toward Matt.

Angie smiles; it’s obvious in her voice. “Well, you must be so proud of your son. You want a vanilla cone, too?”

“Yeah,” Stick says, his tone gone more hoarse. Matt can’t really think of anything to say. Protesting that Stick isn’t his dad feels… not petty, but not necessary. They both know the truth.

Angie bustles off, and Matt decides to keep quiet. It takes what feels like twelve years for her to return with the check, and Matt takes the carefully folded bills out of his wallet, adding a hefty tip.

Finally, cones in hand, they leave the restaurant.

“Where are you staying?” Matt asks.

“Around.”

Trust Stick to be evasive.

They both eat their ice cream in silence, and Matt is aware of the paper wrapper under his fingers.

“Well, I’d rather get started tonight. Sooner we start, sooner we finish.”

Stick sighs, but his steps turn toward Fogwell’s. Better there than the diner or Josie’s, and Matt doesn’t really want Stick in his apartment, even if he could manage the stairs.

Matt finishes his cone and tosses the wrapper in a trash can. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t imagine Stick’s soft huff, but Stick throws away his wrapper as well.

He clears his throat as Matt breaks into the gym. “You wouldn’t have liked it. That life. That’s why I left.”

“Oh, I’m sure you left out of concern for my well-being,” Matt deadpans. “But from what Elektra told me, you’re right. So thanks.”

_Thanks,_ Matt thinks, _for abandoning me when I was at my most vulnerable. That was super. Didn’t add to any of my issues at all._

Of course, he knew it was that vulnerability, that neediness that had turned Stick off.

“Quit whining,” Stick replies, and Matt wonders - not for the first time - if Stick’s mystical powers include mind-reading. He’s pretty sure they don’t, but sometimes it’s hard to tell. “Siddown.”

Matt sits on a chair, and Stick scoffs.

“I’m taking off my shoes,” Matt says, nettled. Of course, he knows Stick didn’t mean for him to sit on a chair. He pulls off his shoes and socks, then takes off his jacket and tie before folding to sit seiza. It feels odd to do it in work clothes, even without the jacket and tie.

“You ready?” Stick asks. The _about time_ is conveyed by his tone.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, close your eyes.”

“What does it matter? Not like it makes a difference.”

Stick steps closer, and Matt braces himself to respond to a blow, but Stick just pulls off his glasses. “This is gonna take a long time if you argue with everything I say.”

Matt closes his eyes.

“Okay, now listen to your breathing. Pay attention to the way your breath feels as it goes into your lungs. Deep breaths. Slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

It’s like when Stick first taught Matt to meditate. Back then, he kind of thought it was stupid but was so painfully eager for attention - especially from an adult man - that he was willing to give it a try.

Matt gently pushes those memories away and focuses on his breathing.

Stick makes a sound that seems positive. “Have you ever slowed down your heart?”

Matt has. He’s gone to sit with Danny Rand, and Danny has shared some of his techniques. Matt doesn’t answer, though, but breathes more deeply, urging his heart to slow. Danny said not to do it for a long stretch, and Matt remembers his earnest voice saying, _Your body needs your blood to move._ But for this short amount of time, it should be fine.

“Huh.” It’s a pleased exhalation, and Matt reminds himself that he is not nine years old, that he doesn’t care about Stick’s opinion. “Okay, stop. I’m going to do it. Pay attention.”

Matt lets his heart resume its normal rhythm. He hears the thump as Stick drops to the floor, but he also hears his pained exhalation. He focuses on the sounds of Stick’s body; it seems like he’s gotten worse, and Matt can barely hear his heart over the wheeze of his lungs. Maybe there’s something someone can do - maybe Claire. But he knows Stick wouldn’t want to be _helped_.

Stick’s heartbeat goes even more slowly and then finally comes to a halt, or so it seems. His lungs cease their noise as well, though of course there’s a simple explanation for that. Stick could be holding his breath, but what if -

“Stick!” Matt opens his eyes and reaches toward the other man, not even sure what he will do.

Stick’s heartbeat and breathing resume, but he makes an annoyed sound. “That’s what I told you would happen,” he says, though his heart beats erratically for a moment. “I’m not dead - again - yet. Did you at least figure out how I did it?”

“… Maybe.”

“Which means no. Okay, I’ll do it again. Pay _attention_ this time.”

Matt manages not to sigh. He _did_ get distracted. He closes his eyes once more, takes a deep breath, centers himself, and focuses.

Stick again slows his heartbeat, and this time Matt does as well, though he is careful to keep his attention on Stick. There, between one heartbeat and another, the sound disappears. Matt tries to do the same, though he only has the faintest idea of what Stick has done.

Stick’s heartbeat returns, but Matt continues his efforts.

“Hey,” Stick says, his voice gone thready. “Not too much. You can hurt yourself.”

Matt opens his eyes. “And this is a problem?” Hurting himself hasn’t been an issue for Stick in the past, after all.

“Yeah.” Stick takes a moment to continue speaking, and his heart stutters. “Just try a few minutes at a time. Another student pushed herself too far. Her heart never recovered. Remember, you’re disguising your heartbeat, not stopping it.”

Matt knows what is coming next. “I’m not going to learn how to stop other people’s hearts.”

“Well, not with that attitude, you’re not.”

Matt tips his head in puzzlement. Did Stick make a joke?

Stick sighs. “Always so stubborn, Matty. It’s a useful thing to know, but if you feel that strongly about it…”

“I do.”

“Well, fine. Your funeral. Take a break and then try again.”

Matt does.

He doesn’t get it that time, or the next, or the next. He tries during several sessions over the course of about a week.

He tries not to notice that Stick seems weaker every time. He tries not to care. Instead, he makes sure Stick eats; they end up at that diner often enough that Angie starts throwing in free pie. _With_ ice cream.

“How did you… come back?” Matt asks, on the day he finally figures out how to hide his heartbeat. They’re back at the diner, and though they’re not saying it’s in celebration, it kind of is.

Stick scoffs. “Want to know how to come back when you finally make one mistake too many?”

Matt shakes his head as he scoops up a forkful of pie. “No. When it’s my time, I’ll die and be done.”

“Don’t sound so hopeful, kid. You’ve got too much work to do.”

Matt does. Members of the Hand have been filtering into the city. Matt mentioned the goings-on to Danny, who beefed up security around Midland Circle; he backed off when the guards started dying.

“Are we getting the band back together?” Danny asked just the previous night.

Matt smiled and shook his head, but then Jessica stopped by this morning, and Luke texted him this afternoon, so apparently they _are_ getting the band back together.

It feels good knowing that, whatever it is he has to do, he won’t be doing it on his own.

Stick puts down his fork and Matt realizes that he hasn’t said anything. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll do it, Stick. I’ll protect the city, even if -”

“Don’t die,” Stick replies, his voice gone hoarse. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. And re-entry’s a bitch.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Matt takes one more bite of pie, relishing the way the berries burst in his mouth, the cold sweetness of the ice cream.

He does consider his own death, but that’s nothing new. Honestly, he’s surprised he’s lived this long.

The battle is coming. Matt knows that. Stick… will probably not be around for it, if the wheeze in his lungs and the stutter in his heart are any indications.

But Stick is here. And, for all the shit he piled on Matt in the past, he’s doing good, now. That’s something.

He’s not sure what the future will hold, but at least there’s pie.


End file.
